Blue Dawn (9 page)

The woman smiled. “Hello, I’m Joanne Carabini.” Her soft, mellow voice sounded as normal as her clothing looked. “And you must be that reporter from
The Streeter
who called me earlier today?”

“Yes.” Allie extended her hand. “I’m Allie Stanislawski.” The woman’s hand, cool and plump, closed around hers. “And this is one of our photographers, Erik Berenger.”

Erik inclined his head. Allie was struck once more by the exotic quality of his slightly slanted eyes, broad cheekbones and square jaw. She’d have to make a point of finding out more about his background.

The two of them followed Madame Carabini through the entranceway, into a sunken living room, and then into the dining room decorated in tasteful shades of ivory and coral, and permeated with the strong scent of roses from a crystal bowl of potpourri.

Allie put the plastic bag down on the lace-covered table, and glanced round. Where were the crystals, the dramatic draperies, the smoky lighting, the tarot cards —all the things that she associated with someone involved in paranormal activities?

“Sit down,” the woman said, pulling out a chair.

She smiled again. “You’re disappointed, aren’t you? I’m sure you expected someone more flamboyant, right?”

Allie flushed. “Well, actually, yes.”

Madame Carabini laughed and pulled out another chair across from Allie. “Don’t worry.

You’re not the only one. I’m used to dealing with skepticism and perceptions based on television and movies. Even my husband is skeptical at times. And he knows me.”

Madame Carabini settled herself in the chair, then put her hands palm down on the ivory lace table cloth. “Now, before we get started, is there anything else you should tell me about this Cody Walker and his disappearance?”

“You’ve read all the newspaper accounts?”

When the woman nodded, Allie continued. “Well, the only other thing I can tell you is that the police are stumped. There’s nothing at work, at his abandoned car, at his apartment to indicate any kind of foul play. His bank accounts are intact, his memberships up-to-date, his clothes still at home, and none of his friends or family had any inkling he was planning to go anywhere.”

“Hmm.” The woman said nothing further. Allie heard Erik behind them, quietly unpacking his cameras and flashes and assessing Madame Carabini, the room and the lighting.

“You’ve brought what I asked you to bring?”

“Yes.” Allie dumped the contents of the bag onto the table. It had been difficult to find items Cody had owned or used for a long period; he seemed to go through things quickly, much like he used people. But finally she’d come up with an engraved pen from his mother, the Humphrey Bogart tie he’d kept in his desk drawer for formal emergencies, the rope and gloves he used for rock-climbing, and the nylon windbreaker he’d left in his Corvette.

“Is that enough?”

“Oh yes, that’s fine.” Madame Carabini arranged the objects in front of her. She touched each one, pausing for a moment before moving to the next. Finally she grasped the windbreaker.

She stroked it, ran her fingers along the zipper, then settled her hands on the dark blue nylon.

Her aquamarine eyes regarded Allie unwaveringly.

Allie noticed the odd shade and unusual clarity of the psychic’s eyes. How had she ever thought the woman’s appearance ordinary?

“I hope you realize this doesn’t always work, my dear,” Madame Carabini continued.

“Sometimes I can’t get a strong enough impression from any of the items, or the impressions are too confused to make out anything specific.”

Allie nodded.

Madame Carabini smiled, then shut her eyes.

Her hands rested on the jacket, and she breathed more deeply.

Allie watched in silence. One minute, two minutes, three minutes passed. Only the sound of breathing and the quiet clicks of Erik’s camera as he moved around the table and recorded the psychic’s motionless examination of the jacket broke the stillness.

Finally Madame Carabini’s eyes fluttered open.

She looked around the room before her gaze returned to the jacket. She frowned, then looked at Allie. “This is very strange. I’m getting a lot of impressions, but they’re confusing and they don’t seem to add up to anything.”

“Yes?” Allie leaned closer.

“It’s like—well, I think this Cody fellow is still alive. In fact, I’m certain of it. The impressions, the feeling I’m getting just aren’t right for death.

But it’s as if . . .”

The woman’s voice trailed off. “Yes?” prompted Allie.

“It’s as if he’s disappeared. But . . . but into nothing.” Madame Carabini’s strange, clear eyes flickered, then clouded over. “Some kind of void.

Nothing that I can get a handle on. Nothing that makes any sense.”

“But what about his disappearance? Did he go voluntarily? Was he abducted?”

Madame Carabini frowned. She fingered the jacket again, then looked up at Allie. “I’m not really getting a clear picture. I don’t sense any violence, but . . .”

“But what?”

“Something’s just not right about this whole thing. He’s gone, but he’s not gone. I’m getting strong impressions, but I don’t understand what they’re saying. An impression of a cold unlike anything on Earth, and a strange blue energy, like the light from a Bunsen burner but without any heat.”

Allie sat on the edge of her seat. How odd that the psychic would see a blue light or energy as she’d called it. She had seen a blue light around Cody’s car the other night, but it seemed too ridiculous to mention. She pushed the pen and the tie towards Madame Carabini. “Maybe if you concentrated on these other items?”

The psychic nodded. She held the pen in one hand, the tie in the other, and shut her eyes.

Several more minutes passed. Erik had stopped taking pictures and stood at one end of the table.

Finally Madame Carabini shook her head. She opened her eyes and looked sadly at the items in her hands. “I’m sorry. I seem to be running into some kind of wall. I get so far, and that’s it. It’s as if some force is blocking the way. I don’t understand it.”

Allie exhaled slowly. Despite her skepticism, she’d become caught up in the psychic process.

For a while, she’d actually thought the psychic was onto something, that she might provide a concrete clue to help in Cody’s rescue. But it had proved to be just another exercise in futility.

Hiding her disappointment, Allie stood up.

“Well, thanks for trying. I guess we should be on our way then.”

“Oh no, my dear. Don’t leave yet. You’ve come all this way, for very little. Give me your hand.

Perhaps I can tell a little about your future. It’s not something I do often, but I am quite accurate.”

She reached across the table and grasped Allie’s hand. “No,” Allie protested. “I’d rather—”

“Oh, please, let me. I feel badly I wasn’t able to tell you more. At least let me send you away with something.”

“All right.” Grudgingly Allie sat down again and allowed the woman to examine her hand. In contrast to its earlier coolness, Madame Carabini’s hand now felt dry and hot.

“I’m not reading your palm, my dear,” Madame Carabini said soothingly. “This is more like reading the impressions, the pictures and emotions that flow within you.”

Without warning, the psychic’s head thrust upwards. Her eyebrows rose in questioning arches. “I sense a lot of hostility. Hostility and mixed emotions towards this man Cody. You had some sort of relationship with him?”

Allie grimaced. She wasn’t about to tell the psychic she’d recently been engaged to Cody.

Covertly she glanced at Erik before responding.

Apparently oblivious to the conversation, he was moving behind her for another shot of Madame Carabini. “You could say that. Me and half the women in Chicago.”

The psychic nodded. She concentrated on Allie’s hand again, this time shutting her eyes. If she picked up any of the feelings of hurt and betrayal Allie was trying so hard to blot from her heart, of worry over what had happened to Cody, she didn’t say. “Ah well, we will forget the past, and perhaps the present too,” she murmured.

“We’ll move on to the future.”

“Ahh.” The psychic smiled, but didn’t open her eyes. “I see someone else in your future.

Someone tall, dark, strong. You’ve met him already.”

She frowned. “But there’s something strange about this man. Something odd. He’s . . .”

Her voice trailed off. Then, as if the gates holding back the impressions had been suddenly opened, she began again, the words flowing strong and fast.

“I’m starting to get impressions of his life, many years ago. I see him, high in the mountains, in a tiny hut. He’s with his father and mother.

There’s another man too, an old, respected man in a long flowing garment, maybe a priest or a monk of some sort. He’s telling them something. I can’t hear what it is. But I can see the reaction. The boy doesn’t understand the significance of what’s said. His parents do though, and they struggle to hide how upset they are, and how much they fear for their son.”

Madame Carabini squeezed Allie’s hand harder.

“Now I see the man as a young boy. He can’t be more than seven or eight. He’s outside, in a desolate wood. Furtively he looks around, as if he’s afraid someone will see him. From behind a bush, he pulls a wooden box. Then he lifts a bird, a species I can’t identify, from the box. The bird is wounded, and the boy has placed a splint on its wing. He cradles it in his arms, strokes it and murmurs reassuring words.

“Suddenly a man appears. It’s the— Yes, it’s the boy’s father. He tells the boy attachments to animals are foolish, and cannot be allowed. Oddly, he does not seem angry, or disappointed, merely matter-of-fact. He pulls a weapon of some sort from his pocket. It’s not like anything I’ve ever seen before. He hands it to the boy. Oh!”

Allie winced as the psychic’s fingernails dug into her palm. She watched in amazement as tears began to run down Madame Carabini’s face.

“Oh, the poor child. His anguish, his despair.

It’s painful and no one understands. No one.

But—but he rebels, perhaps for the first time in his life. He refuses to shoot the bird, despite his father’s insistence. Finally the man takes the weapon back and does what the boy won’t: he kills the bird.”

Allie felt the shudder that raced through Madame Carabini. She was relieved when the woman’s grip on her hand started to relax.

“The boy is devastated. But he doesn’t cry. It’s almost as if he retreats deep into himself to block out the pain. He goes numb.”

Madame Carabini sighed. “The boy now grown into a man is . . .” Her eyes snapped open. Her teary gaze focused on a spot behind Allie. She blinked, once, twice, then her mouth gaped.

“Why, why . . . why it’s you,” the psychic stammered in surprise.

Erik froze, camera in hand. Only a lifetime of control saved him from betraying the anguish released by the psychic’s uncovering of both his destiny and the long-buried incident with the bird.

He could feel the psychic’s penetrating gaze on him, and Allie’s puzzled, troubled look. He struggled to suppress the unwanted memories, and the disturbing emotions they ignited.

With extreme care, he forced his features to assume what he hoped was an innocent expression. He lowered his camera. “I don’t think so, madame. You’ve got the wrong man.”

The woman’s gaze faltered before his show of innocence. For a second, Erik wondered if she had sensed a more important secret—his alien nature.

His eyes narrowed imperceptibly. Could any Earthling’s psychic powers be strong enough, sophisticated enough to uncover that? She had, after all, recognized that Cody was in an unusual place, though she could not pinpoint it. He forced himself to maintain his untroubled pose.

Madame Carabini blinked. Then she shook her head. She glanced at Allie, and back to Erik. The strength of her aquamarine gaze grew as she regained her composure.

“I said,” she stated quietly, ”that you are the same person as the boy I saw in those two impressions, first on a mountain, and then in a desolate wood.” Her voice grew firmer, her gaze more confident as she stared at Erik. “You are the man in Miss Stanislawski’s future.”

Allie’s brow creased in consternation. Her troubled gaze remained on Erik.

Erik forced himself to chuckle softly. He had to act quickly to dispel the psychic’s statements, before her probing destroyed his self-control and any chance of achieving his destiny.

“You’re right about a relationship with Allie, of course,” he said, nodding towards her. He didn’t care about Madame Carabini, but he wished he knew what Allie was thinking behind that troubled gaze. The struggle to control his chaotic emotions left no room for telepathic probing. “We’re co-workers at
The Streeter
, and we’ve been asked to work together on stories concerning Cody Walker’s disappearance. Unfortunately, that’s as far as it goes.”

He took a deep breath to steady himself, and looked hard at the psychic. “But as far as the events you relate, they are not incidents from my life. Perhaps your impressions of me have become entangled with those of Mr. Walker.” He nodded to the items strewn across the table.

Madame Carabini frowned. “Perhaps. There is something . . .” Her voice trailed off, then started again. “But I don’t think so. If they had become confused I would know.”

“Maybe we’re getting off track here,” Allie interjected. Erik and Madame Carabini turned to regard her. “I mean, we came here to find out anything we could about Cody. While Erik’s background may be interesting, it’s not the reason for our visit.”

She smiled soothingly at Madame Carabini. “Is there anything else you can tell us about Cody?”

The psychic grimaced. “Not right now. I’m sorry.” Levelly she regarded Erik. “I’m afraid my impressions of Mr. Walker have been blotted out by—” Her eyes narrowed. “What did you say your name was?”

“Erik Berenger,” Erik supplied smoothly, more relaxed now that Allie had unwittingly helped extricate him from a situation that could have proved dangerous.

“Really?” The woman’s eyebrows rose. Then she returned her attention to Allie. “If you could leave Mr. Walker’s belongings here for a few days, I can try again. I’ll call you if I come up with anything else.”